Basketball moms

Last weekend, I went to watch the 9th grade basketball team my boyfriend coaches play one of its arch rivals. I arrived at half time and slipped into the first empty seat I could find, trying my best not to disturb the parents and grandparents already perched in the stands.


After shuffling off my coat and glancing at the score, I began, as I always do, to take inventory of the individuals around me. To my left were three slender, young mothers, sporting three variations on the preppy mom uniform - blue jeans, wrap sweaters and clunky leather boots. They chatted amongst themselves, but kept their eyes fixed on the court. On my right, two enthusiastic fathers effervesced about the team playing better that night than they had all season. I heard the man behind me answer his cell phone only to be shushed by his wife. "Honey..." she hissed, "You're talking really loudly."

And then my eyes fell on the woman seated just in front of me whose curly, salt-and-pepper hair was drawn softly away from her face, revealing a placid expression and unfurrowed brow. Her lips rested in a half-smile that evoked a sense of calm not normally observed at a basketball game. I was intrigued.

I leaned a few inches forward and saw a mound of woven cotton cascading over her thigh into a cloth satchel. It was then that I noticed her hands, poised just above her lap, gently gripping a pair of plastic knitting needles.

She was knitting. At a basketball game.

Now, I am not saying there is anything wrong with bringing handwork to a sporting event....I'm just saying it was something I had not witnessed until that moment.

My first reaction was one of mild disgust. Could her son's basketball game really be that boring to her? How would he feel if he knew she was knitting during his game? Like he's not good enough... not interesting enough...not her top priority?

But as I thought it over more carefully, I decided that perhaps my first assessment had been unfair. In all honesty, she could have been paying full (or almost full) attention to her son's game even if her hands were otherwise occupied. And maybe he would rather her knit throughout his game than embarrass him by cheering or yelling at the ref.

Maybe the gentle, mindless activity helped this mother relax and enjoy something that left other parents overinvolved and tense.

Who knows....perhaps all those 9th grade boys would be better off if their parents paid a little bit less attention to every dribble, pass and foul shot they made. Maybe they'd be relieved to know their parents weren't always hyper-focused on them, and that they would even take the occasional opportunity to let their minds wander.

Things that give me pause

On July 1, Christopher B. Howard became the first black president of Hampden-Sydney College. The 40-year old is a Rhodes scholar and graduate of the U.S. Air Force Academy with a doctorate in politics from Oxford University and an MBA from Harvard Business School. He earned a Bronze Star in Afghanistan, headed Bristol-Myers' HIV/AIDS initiative for Africa and now serves as a defense attaché to Liberia, where he spent two weeks on duty last month before reporting to his new post at Hampden-Sydney.

Howard is an Aspen Institute Henry Crown Fellow and serves as a senior advisor on African affairs at Stonebridge International. In 2000, inspired by his wife's experiences growing up under Apartheid in South Africa, Howard founded the Impact Young Lives Foundation to provide scholarships and travel opportunities to South African students of color.

His resume goes on and on ... and is nothing short of remarkable. I look forward to seeing the new perspective Howard and his family will bring to the Hampden-Sydney community.

July 19 Richmond Times-Dispatch article: http://bit.ly/30qtVt

Christopher Howard on leadership: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZW7-eeg5NfA

Life lessons from the King of Pop

As I scanned through radio channels during my drive to the mountains last Friday, I happened upon a radio interview with a Midwestern woman who was grappling with the reality of Michael Jackson’s death. The woman said that it wasn’t until Jackson died that she truly came to recognize and appreciate the role he had played in shaping her dance career. I listened, enthralled, as she tearfully described the confused rush of emotion she experienced when she heard the news of Jackson’s death and all the memories – of his performances as well as her own – that had since come flooding back to her. And, while I am by no means a dancer or musician, I found myself identifying with much of what the woman said. Hearing her reminisce about Michael and his music caused me to consider my own “relationship” with the King of Pop. As hard as it is for me to admit now, I was once a die-hard M.J. fan.

I don’t quite remember how I first became interested in Michael Jackson’s music. What I do remember is shrieking at the top of my lungs – “Yyyeesssssssssss!!!” – when I found a cassette tape of Thriller in my stocking on Christmas morning. That was the year I was in fourth grade – the year I became completely obsessed. My cousins and I spent hours upon hours composing dance routines to everything from “ABC” by the Jackson Five to “Billie Jean,” “Bad,” and Smooth Criminal.” We even took a stab at choreographing our own (uber-cheesy) performance of “Black or White.”

That summer, I discovered MTV and VH1 and devoured every Michael Jackson special I came across. I watched the ABC Family movie, The Jacksons: An American Dream, so many times I could practically recite the script by heart. I am pretty sure I even recorded some of this “educational material” on a blank VHS tape so that I could watch it over and over again – pausing and rewinding to study Michael’s dance moves and then attempt to recreate them in my living room.

So what changed? Why did I eventually ditch my M.J. albums and replace them with the latest by Sheryl Crow and Ace of Base?

I think I began to lose interest when I saw the slightly creepy but mostly sad version of Michael that emerged during the infamous Oprah interview at Neverland Ranch. Then, the endless series of child molestation charges gradually smothered to death the last few sparks of enthusiasm and respect I had for him.

Deep down, I wanted to be a loyal fan and stand up for the artist I so admired, but it was suddenly way un-cool to do so. The more the media feasted on Jackson’s freakish appearance and dubious behaviors, the more difficult it became to focus on his talents instead of his shortcomings.

I genuinely hope that Jackson is finally resting in a peaceful place where he is free from the gnashing jaws of the paparazzi, but I must admit that I have been pleasantly surprised at how the public has responded to his passing. The media’s interest in digging up the nitty-gritty details of Jackson’s death has been vastly overshadowed by the tidal wave of positive recognition(or cultish hero-worship, whatever you want to call it) he has received over the last two weeks. Sure, the coverage of Tuesday’s memorial service was a bit over the top, but I, for one, have taken great pleasure in hearing Michael’s music on the radio, seeing his old performances rerun on television and observing as people across the globe process the bittersweet news of his death.

I find it a shame that it often takes a celebrity dying in order for the public (or the media) to focus on the positive aspects of his or her career. It is incredibly easy to fall into a pattern criticism and judgment, but life is too short and too precious to be tainted by constant negativity. And nothing good ever comes of negative thinking. So , in honor of Michael, I am going to start with the (wo)man in the mirror and challenge her to always look for the good in people.

The Search

I don't mean to be critical, but I am so sick of this type of commentary:
http://social.richmond.com/blog/carolinesplate/2009/04/the-lost-first-date/

Yes, dating in 2009 is different than dating in 1950. Yes, it sucks.

Now move on.

I find this obsession with "the search for the perfect mate" extremely tiresome. There is no perfect mate.

If you're lucky, you will find a kind, supportive, loving mate ... but there is no point in hoping for perfection. And there is no point in wasting energy analyzing why near-perfection is so hard to find.

Why not use that energy to pursue something within reach? Why not search for yourself ... connect with yourself ... improve yourself.

Each one of us is ultimately responsible for our own happiness. No one--not even the "perfect" mate-- can guarantee another person's sense of well being. That sense is one that comes from within.

So ... to all you self-professed dating gurus, I say relax. Take a break from dating as a competitive sport, and cultivate a relationship with someone who can make you happy--yourself.

How far have we come?

I watched an excellent but emotionally disturbing film last night.

It was "Changeling"-- yet another of Clint Eastwood's thought -provoking directorial masterpieces.

Conspiracy, corruption and discrimination are some of the sociopolitical issues raised in the film, which is based on a series of events that took place in Los Angeles in the late 1920s .

"Changeling" exposes some alarming real-life examples of conspiring officials and corrupt police departments. But, to me, the most disturbing illustration was that of the L.A. County Hospital Psychiatric Ward.

It wasn't that I was distressed by the images of life inside an insane asylum. (I have seen "Girl Interrupted" and "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," after all.)

No...what I found most upsetting was the patients' sense of helplessness--and the doctors' refusal to listen to them.

The doctors and nurses assumed everything the women said or did to be evidence of their "insanity." The harder a patient tried to act normal, the crazier she seemed.

I was nauseated at the idea that, as soon as a woman is diagnosed as mentally ill, she essentially loses the ability to defend herself.

Fortunately, I know that over the past 80 years society has made significant progress in its approach to mental illness.

Today, doctors are better equipped to diagnose and treat anxiety, depression and mood disorders with counseling and medication; insurance companies are finally required to treat mental ailments the same way they treat physical ailments; and it seems the stigma attached to mental illness is gradually beginning to fade.

Taking all of this into consideration as I re-hashed the psych ward scenes in "Changeling," I convinced myself that patients in modern psychiatric wards are treated more humanely than those portrayed in the movie.

But this morning, NPR informed me that caretakers at a home for mentally retarded citizens were recently arrested for organizing after-hours "fight clubs" pitting disabled residents against each other.

So now I wonder...

If a group of caretakers can so easily abuse the mentally disabled, why should I think they couldn't do the same to the mentally ill?

Open your mind and add spice to your life

I was midway through a semester abroad program, studying French and living with a family in Paris when the United States declared war on Iraq.

“C’est la guerre,” my host father matter-of-factly proclaimed as we sat down to dinner one March evening.

Once it became clear that France would not back the U.S. in its pursuit of war with Iraq, I received phone calls and emails from friends in the states :

“Is it weird to be in France right now? Are the people rude or hostile to you? Do the French hate Americans now? Do you feel unsafe?”

Not at all.

As opposed to Americans, who had boycotted the sale of French wine and taken to calling French fries “freedom fries,” my French colleagues were able to make a clear distinction.

"We are against the war, but we are not against Americans," they said.

Despite my inherent association with President Bush and the war, I never encountered the least bit of enmity or aggression from the French community.

I hope that a French student studying in the states at that time would be able to say the same.

Living abroad, especially during such a controversial moment in history, opened my mind to the importance of cross-cultural awareness and drew my attention to the media’s considerable influence over public perception.

This awareness has encouraged me to seek out friends with backgrounds different from my own and to consider the variety of perspectives surrounding each political, social or cultural issue.

They say variety is the spice of life. If so, I believe we owe it to society and to ourselves to keep our spice racks fully stocked.